


Shell Game

by justlikeabaroness



Series: Folie à Deux [6]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beating, Blow Jobs, Disfigurement, M/M, Oblique references to sexual slavery, Psychological Warfare, Seduction, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7990429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeabaroness/pseuds/justlikeabaroness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one is more vulnerable than those who believe themselves superior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shell Game

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: 先生 (Xiānshēng) means 'sir' or 'mister.' In Mandarin, it usually goes after the surname, not before. So, Huang Zitao would be 黄先生 (Huáng xiānshēng or Mr. Huang).
> 
> A/N #2: 老板 (lǎobǎn) means "boss." Yi Fan is considered the boss of the Yangcheon-gu branch of the Ordinary Group, which is a tong or gang affiliated with the Hong Kong Triads. ( Just to ensure we're all on the same page. )
> 
> A/N #3: 阿姨 (āyí) means 'auntie.' It's common to call older women this even if you are unrelated, kind of like ahjumni or ahjumma in Korean.

It is a punishment to have to breathe the same air as some people. 

For Yixing, Wu Yifan is one of those people. 

He always feels drained after visiting the Yangcheon-gu tong hall, no doubt because he has to smile and bow and make nice with Yifan and his simpering subordinates, all of whom are terrified of the man the way a serf fears their master. It's exhausting, and it's stomach-turning, and it always makes him that much more convinced that somehow, the man has probably slowly murdered a child for the sheer academic curiosity of it. He will admit to a sort of morbid curiosity about the man - Yixing has always been the sort to be tempted by danger - but there are things even a contract killer draws the line at accepting. 

He is here now, though, as a sleeper agent, though Yifan is, of course, not aware of it. The leader of the Yangcheon-gu tong is, for once in his life, rattled. He seems not to have slept in two days, pacing all over his deliberately shabby office, knuckles white and red from being squeezed and bitten to let off stress. Yixing watches as Yifan walks, teeth gritted, eyes fixed on the floor as the brain works overtime. He doesn't speak at all. No profane exclamations, no threats against the cause of his ire. Just silence and plans for destruction. _Fitting,_ Yixing thinks. Still, he's been thrown together with this ice-hearted bastard for so long that he's begun to know the sound of his footsteps, to know the short, almost hesitant gait he falls into when he's angry or exhausted or both. That's now. 

He hears things. Market _āyís_ seem to like him, gossiping and flirting, assuming he's one of Yifan's underlings, or 'coworkers,' and it's through one of them that he heard the name Huáng Zitao. Heard that all seems not to be well with the young man, to the point where he talks of going back to China. It's worth investigating. But Yifan has called him here before he can invite himself, and frankly, Yixing isn't convinced that the two events aren't related. He has to play this very carefully. 

Aloud, he says in Mandarin, "Is this alleviating your anger, lǎobǎn? Because it's also wasting time."

Yixing expects Yifan to snap at him; he is, after all, the boss, at least on paper. But he doesn't; instead visibly trying to calm himself, fixing his gold-rimmed glasses back into place on his nose and smoothing his hair back down. "I shouldn't waste time, yes, but I also need to stop and assess." He looks at Yixing, tone still hiding a note of panic under the usual reserve. "I apologize, Zhang xiānshēng. Priorities." 

Yixing doesn't acknowledge the apology, because that's not what Yifan wants. He instead says, "You haven't told me how I might be of service here. All I know is that something has gone very, very wrong." He risks the personal comment. "You look extremely upset. I'd like to help." 

That actually gets the faintest outline of a smile, more like a rictus. Even though it's ghastly, a parody of what actual amusement should be, it's a welcome crack in the man's armor. "There's a simple answer," Yifan replies, rubbing a hand down the back of his neck, but quickly growing serious again. His face seems to twist just spitting out the words, sounding almost too exhausted for words. "There has been a leak. First our cargo manifests go missing, and now there is someone out there who knows how to read their true meaning."

"A leak? 'Someone?'" Yixing raises an eyebrow. Could this Zitao be the leak? A more concrete plan starts to form. Time is a resource that the man routinely undervalues, and in this case, it may be to Yixing's advantage. 

"I overheard one of my council talking to what I presume is the SMPA." Yifan's face is frozen again; it looks almost like pain to Yixing. "He was in the basement, but neglected to close the door to the dumbwaiter. When that happens, noise from that level goes straight up to anyone near the shaft." 

"Ah. So you know who the leak is; you just don't know who they were speaking to."

"Yes." Yifan goes over to his desk and opens a drawer, handing over a file. "His name is Huáng Zitao." Yixing manages to keep his face even. "And I need your help to find out the rest of the story. We have to know who he told, and how much time we have to head them off." He musters an exhausted smile, shark teeth on full display. Yixing feels like he has to smile back if only to show Yifan what joy is meant to look like. "I thought you might like to speak to him. You do have an intimidating reputation." 

"Yifan-ge, I'm not a ghost under the bed." Yixing laughs. "Would this Huáng really be so scared of me?" He can't seem too eager. 

"Yes," Yifan says tersely, perhaps too tersely. "He's almost a child, less than a man. Still very young, and he's heard of you - especially how you killed the Japanese transport minister last year." He laughs faintly, the ghost of an almost manic sound.

"That was a tough one." Yixing is understating; try 'suicidally impossible yet got off the luckiest shot in the history of the universe' more than 'a tough one.' "Still. I am not a member of this tong. Are you sure you want to trust a freelancer with a task like this? I mean, I would think you'd simply beat it out of him." He has to be sharp, deliberate, goading. Yifan's reserve is hard to crack, but the more Yixing can shatter it, the more it plays to his advantage. "Why use me as a psychological bludgeon? I'll speak to Huáng xiānshēng if you want, but it seems inefficient to do this instead of just ending it." 

"You're still a Triad, even if you are a 'freelancer.' And when one has to choose between efficiency and effectiveness, always choose the latter." Yifan looks at Yixing, face blank. He opens his mouth to speak, then just sighs, looking down. "May I be frank?"

"Of course, lǎobǎn." Yixing has to admit, he's surprised. Wu Yifan is not the sort to unburden himself very often. He's done it before, but only once, and there had been alcohol involved. He's positive this man is as sober as a judge right now. 

Yifan's dark eyes close, and Yixing readies for a quiet, urbane, firmly delivered rant. He sees the man sigh, look down again, and all but fall into his high-backed chair. "I ... have personal reasons I don't want to do this myself. Or at least not until the extent of the damage has been ascertained." 

The idea that Yifan might harbor personal feelings over anyone's well-being is a surprise, not even because the man is necessarily evil, but because that would imply genuine human feeling. Yixing has wondered if he's suffered some trauma in his past - survivors tend to play their proverbial cards very close to the vest indeed. "Really. You surprise me," Yixing says, sitting in the guest chair and crossing his legs. "I would have thought you above such things, but I suppose I should be glad to discover you're human." Yifan is an attractive man, and if Yixing had encountered him in any other circumstance, without Baekhyun across town, he might act on it. 

It's perhaps a little impolite, to be as blunt as he has been, but he doesn't think Yifan will call him on it, and he doesn't. "Don't think it doesn't cause problems," Yifan just mutters. "Xing-di, you're ... well traveled." He wets his lips. "Do you know what tóngzhì means in a slang context?" 

Yixing does; he's used the word to refer to himself many times, since it has come to mean 'queer', though the word was first used to mean 'comrade.' He also knows that Yifan, no matter how much he may deny it, is tóngzhì, and therein lies something to be exploited. He's prepared for this, but he has to use it skillfully. It's a blade dance he's attempted before, though not on this man in particular. He can do it - he just may need a shower afterward. 

Still, he answers casually. "Yes, I do know what it means. Why do you ask? Is this man Huáng tóngzhì? Does it matter?"

"Yes, and yes." Yifan says it heavily, and he suddenly finds the carpet much more interesting than Yixing's face. 

Immediately Yixing understands, and, universe help him, he feels both happiness and a twinge of sympathy for the man. This is not an easy position to be in, as a leader or as a man - it's one thing to be what one is; it's another to develop feelings for someone you're meant to watch over and protect. And yet, he can use this. His intelligence has been vindicated. It feels dirty and cruel, but so does reading the reports of the deals Yifan makes with operatives in Pyongyang. So does reading autopsy reports and seeing photos of dead women with glass shards lodged in their throats. 

Yixing takes a deep breath. He says, "So this is personal to you." 

"Yes." To his credit, Yifan doesn't deny it. "I take responsibility, in all honesty. I didn't cause the leak, but I did cause ... distress. I made Zitao doubt my leadership." 

Yixing's eyebrows shoot up, leaving him feeling a bit like a window, its blinds constantly being pulled upward. This must be serious, to elicit an admission of such failure. "Distress? What have you done, Yifan-ge?"

"He's ... romantic. And impulsive." Yifan sounds outright embarrassed, which is both liberating and a huge warning flag in Yixing's eyes. "He reacted poorly to something I told him, and I have reason to believe that this is his retaliation. Or his way of making it clear that he finds me unfit to lead." 

"If he's this undisciplined, what is he doing here to begin with?" Yixing asked, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. Self-doubt and nerves make him deliberately harsh. "Did you just want a sex toy?"

Yifan's head snaps up, eyes flashing. "You forget your place!"

"You forget yours." Yixing's voice is just as cold as Yifan's has ever been, though he's pleased with the man's sudden anger. "It is your job to ensure your men act as they should. You not only haven't done that, you've brought an impulsive boy into a situation where one fit of pique could land your entire tong, and everyone associated with it" - Yifan himself included - "in jail. If I were under you, I might consider straying. Or at least, involving Hong Kong in what seems like a clusterfuck of a situation." 

It's perhaps mean to bring up Hong Kong, but Yixing knows it will get a reaction, and a reaction is what he needs right now. He needs Yifan scared - as much as the man ever gets scared. He needs to delay him, distract him, to give this Zitao's source enough time to use the information they've been given, and if possible, to give the boy time to get away. Hong Kong is ground zero - it's where the truly dangerous people reside. Yixing is one of them - but of course, Yifan doesn't know that. He thinks he's God in his tiny fiefdom, and karma hasn't yet seen fit to disabuse him of that notion. 

Yifan still hasn't spoken, and Yixing repeats himself in slightly different words. "If I were under you, I would have very little confidence in your ability to keep me out of jail." He looks up at the other man, watching the eyes narrow, the button lips purse. "That confidence is something you have to earn." 

"I told Zitao I was in love with someone else." Yifan's voice suddenly appears, as if waiting for the right moment to burst through the wall, and he's looking straight at Yixing, and suddenly Yixing can't quite draw a full breath, despite all his arguments for Yifan's incompetence and infamy. He tries to tell himself it's purely professional, purely joy at being given an avenue to exploit, but he knows that he's not entirely being truthful. It's irritating. "He was hurt." 

At some point in the near future, Yixing asks, "And that made him act out?"

"He said I didn't even know if this man was tóngzhì." Yifan's voice continues to spill like a trickle of oil escaping from a car. "That I wasn't being a good leader, that I had led him on, that I should be focusing on the tong, as if he hasn't spent six months greedy for my dick." The vulgarity seems to shock even Yifan, and Yixing is both repelled by the casual crudity and pleased by the vulnerable and susceptible side of this frozen man. "He's right, but I haven't slept in more than two days, and I _must_ recover those manifests. And Minseok! Kim Minseok." Yifan laughs, sounding delirious. "The bastard. I don't know if he kidnapped Lu Han or if Han went willingly, but either way, they're at large with our secrets and if they become public knowledge, I'm finished, but _I do not want to die!_ "

Yixing rises, simply acting on instinct, throwing himself around the side of the desk and slapping Yifan hard enough to draw blood. Between breaking the cycle of panic, calming him down, and acting out some long-buried rage, it feels therapeutic. It will also trigger a reaction.

Yifan sits in his chair, hand flown to his left cheek like a butterfly, still stunned seconds afterward by the blood oozing from the new cut across his cheekbone. Eventually, he simply asks, "You know I can have you killed for that?" 

The Triads' Thirty-Six oaths forbid raising a hand to a brother member, and Yixing knows it, but he isn't frightened. "You won't," is all he says. Frankly, he'd rather not have to pull rank, but even if he does, it's more time Yifan will spend not pursuing his stolen secrets. More time Baekhyun may yet be able to use to find Zitao, and maybe even time to push this Zitao in the right direction. 

Yifan doesn't reply, instead reaching for a tissue to blot the blood off his face. He dabs at it, then looks up at Yixing. As if drunk, he rises to his feet with glazed eyes, coming over to where Yixing is still standing, as if stuck to the side of the desk. 

Yixing ducks past him, sitting in Yifan's chair, deliberately spreading his legs wide. As he watches the other's face, he sees the blush, but he also sees the way Yifan's eyes narrow. He is reasonably sure this man is not acting. He knows that he is winning. 

He tests it by saying two words. "Convince me."

The result is confusion, Yifan's tired brow furrowing, and Yixing risks speaking even more boldly. "I'm not convinced that you're not playing games. Show me your lack of attachment to this Zitao. Show me you aren't trying to seduce me, to make me forget why I'm here. And then maybe I'll help you get rid of him." Yifan doesn't have to say yes, of course - but if he does, Yixing will know more about him than before. He will, frankly, have won. 

Yifan barely needs half a minute before he's climbed onto Yixing's lap and crushed their lips together. He kisses the same way he does everything else, Yixing thinks, deliberate and harsh. 

He wants, somehow, to teach his elder a lesson. Not for his business practices; not for resorting to horrible ends to make a few more won than his competition. Mostly just for himself. So he arches his hips upward, and is rewarded with a surprised expletive growled against his mouth. Yifan bites onto Yixing's bottom lip, and Yixing repays the favor by using his hands, scratching hard down the other's back, hoping he's put a rip in the fine linen shirt. 

Whether he has or not, he's definitely struck a nerve, and it sends an annoyingly dangerous thrill through him when Yifan groans hard into their kiss. His glasses dislodge from behind his ears as he bends his neck to bite and lick down Yixing's neck, and he drops them onto the desk with an irritated flick of the wrist. Yixing knows Yifan's weak spot, though, having done months of careful analysis, or maybe just watched him every time he's needed to calm down. Yixing grabs his arm, looking at Yifan with raised eyebrows, before bringing his mouth down to bite at the apex of the wrist and hand. 

The whimper that results is high-pitched and desperate, and Yixing keeps going, sawing his mouth gently, looking up through lidded eyes as Yifan's screw shut, as his neck seems to go limp. Everyone has their erogenous zones; he can't help but feel triumphant about knowing how to exploit this one. He wonders if he can capitalize on it a little more. Yixing stops biting, looking up at Yifan again, one eyebrow raised. "Is this your method of persuasion? Making me do all the work?"

"I - " Yifan, for once in his life, looks confused, and God, it makes Yixing more than a little hot to know that he has the upper hand in this battle. 

He reiterates. "So you kiss well. Do you want me, or are you seducing me because you suspect me? I'm unconvinced."

Yifan stares, and Yixing can feel the cold patrician rage start to burn. "You want more proof?" His tone is subterranean, spidery hands beginning to twitch with the effort to not react. "My word isn't enough?"

"Frankly, no." Yixing sounds bored, but tries to inject a note of uncertainty. "I'm not one of your underlings. You have no authority over me. You could be trying to get it." He smirks faintly. The fun part with powerful men is to take that power, with no warning, and no chance to fight back. _Except,_ his brain adds on the end, _with Baekhyun._ All that remains to be seen is whether or not Yifan understands. 

That question is answered when Yifan shifts both of them on his chair, planting his knees on the outside of Yixing's, reaching to unzip Yixing's suit trousers and roughly reach inside. It's hard not to react; Yixing feels his eyes widen as Yifan's chilly fingers make contact with his warm erection, though at least he can explain it with the temperature difference. It's like death by paper cuts; to react overmuch is to fail, and to surrender. He manages not to yowl when Yifan's mouth fastens around the pulse in his neck, and his hands simply rest on the other's lower back, fingers splayed, but not searching, not pulling at cloth to see if Yifan's body is as cold as his hands and his heart. 

Yifan can tell he's resisting, of course; the shark-smile comes back out, lips moving against Yixing's neck and shoulders as he starts to stroke. It's not possible to voluntarily stave off an erection, so Yixing doesn't try; instead, he focuses on the fact that right now, Yifan is wasting time. The boy Zitao has passed on information; instead of torturing him to discover its recipient, Yifan is wasting time trying to win a sexual battle with a man who can squash him. Yixing loves power and irony almost as much as he loves getting off. 

He feels Yifan's thumb ghost over his slit, and Yixing has to work hard to bite back a groan. He compromises, letting a shaky breath escape, his neck bending to breathe in the scent of Yifan, and he hears the faint laugh. "You're not one of mine," Yifan breathes against his ear, "but I think you might like to be." 

He shifts his weight on top of Yixing, but Yixing takes the advantage while he still can, grabbing Yifan's wrist and chiding. "Ah, ah." His eyebrows raise. "Don't presume. Sweet talking doesn't sway me." 

Yifan is a quick study, though; almost before Yixing has stopped talking, he's on the floor and removing the last obstacles between his mouth and Yixing's cock. He seems to grasp that Yixing isn't one for palaver, at least not now, and credit has to be given where it's due; Yifan has clearly done this before. He doesn't waste any more time talking, instead putting his tongue to better use. Yixing allows himself to react, because, in all honesty, he's succeeded at what he came to do, which is delay and distract. Why not enjoy it a bit? Besides. It will give Yifan a sense of superiority. No one is more vulnerable than those who believe themselves superior. 

He can tell that Yifan is encouraged by his reactions, and Yixing has to admit, he's not having to exaggerate overmuch. Creativity in cruelty apparently transfers to sexual endeavors; Yifan's mouth finds new patterns that frankly, Yixing didn't expect him to uncover, new spots to touch and tease, and soon he's got Yixing groaning. He grips the armrests of Yifan's chair, letting his legs open wider as Yifan swallows him almost completely. He does his best to think of Baekhyun, to think of their night at the Intercontinental, and wonders if asking Yifan to choke him would give too much away.

Yixing stays silent, though with difficulty, mouth falling open, one hand fisting Yifan's mussed blond hair, feeling both smug and irritated when the man groans around his dick. He debates choking Yifan; that way he can stay in his own head, and imagine that it's Baekhyun. But Yifan's head is bobbing too quickly, and he adds a few sharp scratches on Yixing's inner thigh that genuinely get him yowling. He tries to keep a lid on himself, to stretch this out, to keep Yifan's mind firmly on him and not on whoever could be telling Baekhyun the secret of the tong's cargo - but he also wants to keep himself from calling out Baekhyun's name. 

There is a part of him that puts his morality away when he enters the proverbial lions' den, and that part of him wants to enjoy Yifan. He wants to ignore the special depravity in this place and enjoy himself. But Yixing knows he can't. He decides to give up a little power to gain more at a later date, and moans loudly, giving into the part of him that enjoys the danger. 

It makes Yifan smirk, and speed up. "Fuck," he half purrs, taking a breath, "you moan nice." He slows his mouth, using more tongue and less lips, and Yixing's eyes widen faintly, not expecting that. He bucks up into Yifan's mouth, feeling pleased at the sudden choking noise, but even more at the deeper sensation of his cock down Wu Yifan's self-exalted throat. Yixing hears Yifan start to take care of himself, which is, to be blunt, a relief; he isn't altruistic enough to think about putting his mouth on this man, no matter how appealing the risk factor may be. He grips the blond mop harder instead, trying to spur both of them on toward coming. His eyes close, and he can't entirely help fucking into Yifan's mouth a little more, appreciating the tight grip of the muscles around his dick. 

But now Yixing can't hold off, and he surrenders, coming noisily, biting a hole in his lips to stop himself from forming the syllables of Baekhyun's name. Yifan chokes, and Yixing tries to pull back, but Yifan swallows hard around him, drawing a sharp curse out into the open from the bottom of Yixing's throat. Eventually, Yifan shudders and spills into his hand, mouth pulling off Yixing's cock. His head rests on Yixing's thigh, weighty and warm. 

Yixing's hand strokes through Yifan's sweaty hair as he catches his breath, doing his best to seem happy and languid instead of impatient. "Let me handle this Zitao," he murmurs quietly. "I'm convinced." 

Yifan nods his head, eventually adjusting to sit with his back against his heavy desk, eyes closed. "Cell in the basement," he says. "Call if my presence is needed."

"I will." Yixing will not call. Even if he needed the help, he wouldn't call. This Zitao doesn't deserve to die in the ways he knows Yifan likes to kill. 

"Thank you." Yifan murmurs, going quiet.

***

Yixing takes a second in the men's room to catch his breath, fix his clothes, and have a minor mental breakdown. Yifan is not a stupid man, but he's easily led by his pride, by his ego, and his cock, in that order. He's glad that his gambit worked, but at the same time, he has to admit, he's lost the stomach for this kind of work; he keeps seeing Baekhyun's face. He'll be happy never to return to this place ever again.

But first, the boy. And whatever he may know. He makes sure there's a knife in his pocket, along with his old cigarette lighter. He'll likely need both. 

The basement of the Yangcheon-gu tong hall is a typical cellar, full nearly to the brim with moldering records, scattered holiday decorations and, since this is Korea, a small dirt space that Yixing would guess was left there in which to bury kimchi barrels. In the back, with barred windows that open into a courtyard full of rotting weeds, there are two cells. Unless the dumbwaiter shaft is open, Yixing knows, no sound can be heard.

One of the cells is occupied, and the light of the CCTV camera turns the ground red. As he gets closer to the wall of bars, Yixing can see a young man, with white-blond hair and pale, sickly skin, curled up against the far wall. He's been crying, and the soft sobs and sniffles that still occasionally puncture the air tell Yixing that he hasn't entirely stopped. As Yixing gets closer to who he presumes is Huáng Zitao, he sees the young man wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket, now dirty and scuffed. He's been down here too long to have a chance to get away clean. He'll need Yixing's help.

Yixing steps loudly once or twice, to announce his presence so the boy doesn't scream. Zitao does look up, eyes wide, but Yixing can see him relax when Yifan's blond hair is not suddenly visible in the midday light. "Hello?" he risks calling out, voice shaky, but trying to sound confident.

God, Yixing is reminded of himself. It makes him brusque. "Huáng Zitao." 

"Yes?" Zitao scrambles to his feet, but doesn't come any closer to the bars. "That's ... that's me. You're not Fan-ge. Who are you?"

He simply replies, not seeing a need to draw it out. "I am Zhang Yixing." 

While he doesn't speak in a threatening manner, the young man immediately crumples, weak legs deserting him as he all but cowers against the wall. "No, no, please, don't kill me, I was stupid, I can fix it!" 

Yixing disapproves of sniveling, especially when the sniveler has been monumentally reckless enough to leak information. "You told someone about the manifests and how to read them."

"Yes ... I did, I admit it, but please don't kill me! I was just mad!" Zitao is crying again, and Yixing sighs, unlocking the barred door. "I was just angry - Fan-ge said he loved me, but then he told me he cared about someone else. I know it was stupid, I'll accept any punishment, just please, I want to live!"

"Shut up." Yixing steps inside, not making any overtly threatening moves, just pulling the door closed. Sometimes the direct approach is best. "Stop whining. Tell me who you told and what you told them." 

Zitao seems confused, but it does make him stop blubbering. "I ... you don't know?"

"I know you told. Tell me who!" Yixing slams a hand on the wall, more to frighten the young man than anything, and figuring it will work. 

"Qiáng Yì!" Zitao shrinks back in something approaching terror. "I still had his number, and I wanted to talk, so I called him and we talked, it just slipped out!" 

"Qiáng Yì?" Yixing echoes, racking his brain. "That's not one of the council members?" Yifan has a very small council of advisors, with only three men among its number, and he doesn't remember that name. 

"No, he used to come here a lot, but then he stopped coming, around the time when that cop did all that shit. That was like two months ago, but we're still friends." Zitao sounds slightly less panicked, now instead eager to help, eager to placate. "We could talk; he said it was okay to ask him questions and vent, so I did."

"He stopped coming to the tong hall two months ago?" Yixing's brain is firing on all cylinders now. "Did he spend time with anyone here besides you?"

"Yeah, this boy named Han. I think the cop killed him." 

Now Zitao just seems confused, and Yixing smells triumph. Qiáng Yì is an alias of Kim Minseok's. He remembers now, and doesn't bother telling the young man that he's just given the rogue the ammunition to read the papers he stole. "Go on." 

"There isn't much else to tell." Zitao shakes his head, still unsure of himself, but apparently reassured by the fact that he's still alive. "It just slipped out. He was talking about Yifan and how he keeps secrets even from his council, and I told him about the blacklight." 

"Blacklight?" Yixing echoes. He'd thought that the 'cargo' was code, but apparently not. Is that why the Korean stole the papers in the first place?

"That's how you read the manifests." Zitao laughs, but there isn't a shard of amusement in it. "You can know; you're in Fan-ge's _good graces._ " There's something acid in his tone. 

"Good graces?" Yixing's own voice grows cold, and the boy seems to shrink appropriately. Something in him wants to lash out, and he shoves the young man, catching him off guard and watching him stagger. "You want so badly to be in Wu Yifan's good graces, and this is how you think you can do it? Stupid." It makes him growl, even if he understands where Zitao is coming from. "You'll be lucky to get out of this with your life. There are better ways to impress a man."

Zitao whimpers as he hits the wall, sinking to one knee. "I'm sorry, Yixing-ge. I am." He's getting scared again. "I just was mad. I wanted to hurt him." 

"You've hurt him. You've probably hurt the entire tong. If you've hurt Hong Kong, I can't protect you," Yixing says savagely. Hopefully the boy is smart enough to grasp that if the damage is contained to Seoul, Yixing _may_ be able to protect him. But Hong Kong is where the Triad Masters live, or at least exist, and even Yixing is powerless there. 

"No, no, I didn't do anything against Hong Kong!" He's starting to babble again. "I have nothing but respect for the Masters! I promise!" He drops to a sitting position, arms clasped around his knees, rocking faintly in terror.

Yixing rolls his eyes. Without further palaver, he lets a kick fly, striking Zitao in the shoulder, sending him flying to one side. He has to rough up the young man a little, to add to the blood that needs to be spilled, but part of him also just wants Zitao to be quiet. The boy thankfully confines himself to quietly whimpering, even as Yixing kicks him again. 

He doesn't overdo it; a few kicks to the legs and once in the head, which will make Zitao's ears ring, but nothing much more. A slap in the face that brings blood to the surface. As Zitao hits the floor again, Yixing kneels and grabs him. He all but whispers in the boy's ear. "Listen to me. I can get you out of here alive, but it won't be easy, and it will hurt. Whine about respecting your elders if you want me to try." 

Zitao doesn't immediately reply, which tells Yixing all he needs to know about his panic level. Eventually, though, he does whimper, forcing out, "I respect my elders." 

Yixing nods once. Without further conversation, he walks over to the CCTV camera and stabs at the wires' casing, first cracking the plastic, then sawing through the wires themselves. The light dies. Zitao gapes openly. 

Yixing isn't worried. Yes, eventually Yifan and his underlings will check the footage, but he'll have a head start, and besides, if he does his job well enough, he can increase that head start by days or even weeks. To Zitao he says, "This is going to be the hard part. We need to spill blood." 

Thankfully, Zitao seems to understand. But he's not, despite Yixing's initial impression, stupid. He looks up and asks, "Yixing-ge, what assurance do I have you won't just kill me?" His voice is trembling, but it's there.

He's honest; this Zitao deserves that much. "None," Yixing replies, brushing a shard of plastic off his blade. "But if I wanted to kill you, I'd have slit your throat the second you told me how the manifests are read. I would do your best to forget that information, by the way." 

It's a fair answer, and the young man nods, still visibly terrified. "Where will I go?" 

"Anywhere but Hong Kong," Yixing replies. "I would recommend someplace like Qinghai Province - they speak a form of Mandarin there - or even abroad. There are many Chinese in New York City." 

"So far." Zitao looks even more upset. 

"You brought it upon yourself." Yixing's tone is clipped. "Are you left-handed or right-handed?" Better to keep the young man off balance, to give him less time to think, to change his mind. 

"Right." 

Yixing's instincts are sound, and they tell him the left little finger will be the least difficult to lose. It may be slightly overdramatic, but presenting Yifan with a body part will show commitment, and it will show that Yixing has not faked harming the little blabbermouth. He grabs Zitao by the wrist, thankful that his pocket knife has a tantō blade. Yakuza use tantō in their "finger shortening" rituals, and he's found their strength handy even though he's usually cutting off different things than fingers. 

Zitao instinctively struggles when he sees the blade, and somehow, it makes Yixing like the boy slightly more. He's stupid and impulsive, but he might turn out all right one day. The only word Yixing says to him is "Down," and without further preamble he pulls Zitao's hand down to the floor, fingers spread-eagled. Zitao tries to ask questions, but there's simply no time. Yixing eyes the bottom joint of the left little finger, aims his knife, and strikes with a focused grunt.

Abruptly, it's done. Zitao is screaming, crying, holding the maimed hand up like Macbeth with his dagger. Yixing watches, impassive, allowing the boy his pain. Losing a digit or a limb causes more psychological pain than physical pain in many cases. Besides, if people hear him, which they likely will not, they'll assume Yixing is doing the job he's been asked to do - if a trifle sloppily. 

He'll make sure to tell someone about the finger - he won't have time to take it to Yifan right now. Zitao is quieter now, drawing wheezing breaths, tears streaming down his face, but survival instincts are strong. As Yixing takes the lighter out of his pocket, Zitao swallows, face still contorted, but he extends the hand, allowing Yixing to silently cauterize the wound. There is blood on the floor, and they will find it to be Zitao's if they test it. 

Now the difficult part. "Give me your phone," Yixing says, holding out his hand. Zitao obeys, and Yixing looks through the contacts before calling the number labeled 'Fan-ge.'

Yifan picks up immediately. "Zitao?"

"No." Yixing doesn't identify himself; there's no need, and Yifan wouldn't expect him to. "He's been taken care of. I'm going to leave with the body." He doesn't say anything more, and he hopes the bluff holds. In theory, Yifan will think he's trying to shield the tong. If Zitao were really dead, the less information anyone else had, the better.

Yifan seems to pause a moment, and Yixing doesn't entirely blame him; if he was telling the truth, he loved this boy once. But once he's collected himself, Yifan simply asks, "Who did he tell?" 

"Someone he called Qiáng Yì." Yixing replies. He hears nothing on the other end of the phone, so he continues. "I know who that really is." 

He still doesn't hear anything right away, but then he makes out a sound he can identify as breathing. Just breathing. Labored, pained breathing that sounds like it causes anguish in itself. Yixing tells him, "The number he has is a Seoul area code." 

"They knew each other." Yifan finally speaks. "Qiáng Yì was kind to Zitao. I should have remembered." It's notable to Yixing's ears that Yifan sounds, for the first time in a long while, beaten.

"If he's here, you have to find him, lǎobǎn." 

"Before Hong Kong declares me to be some kind of traitor." Yifan still sounds exhausted. "My incompetence in this has been embarrassing." 

There is nothing to say to that; agreement will get him rage, while disagreement will get him accusations of flattery. Yixing just sighs. He's still worried about Yifan eschewing all pretense at civilization and just starting to kill people, and it makes him uncomfortable. "At least the leak has been plugged." 

"Hopefully not too late." Yifan's voice sounds almost ready to give out. "I should go. The cargo needs to be moved. Detective Kim may be persona non grata with his people, but there's nothing to stop him from leaving some anonymous tip with someone who isn't." 

" _Zhù nǐ hǎoyùn._ " Yixing utters the formal phrase wishing one good luck. It's the last nicety Yifan will ever get from him. Baekhyun doesn't demand them. He's done his best to help the man he loves today. It feels good. 

He hangs up the phone and turns to the pale, now-shivering Zitao. He'll finish this and hide himself with Baekhyun. Possibly forever. "We need to get you out of here. Do as I say and it should work."

***

Four hours later, it's nearly dusk, and Jongdae is freezing his nuts off in the sea air off the Port of Incheon. They're waiting for either the port authorities or the guy with the battering ram to get here, so they can see just what the hell is in the shipping containers on Pier No. 4.

When the call came through, Jongdae had been so sure it was a prank, especially since his run-in with Byun Baekhyun. Since then he's lived in a weird twilight, doing the job, but not particularly caring what happened. He's come to recognize it as mourning of a sort - missing how fucking _simple_ everything used to be. Missing his best friend.

And yet, the caller had passed his tests. 

He'd identified the first thing Minseok had ever said to Jongdae ("Are you going to finish that?"). He'd named all three of the kkangpae they'd helped bust in their first year as detectives. And he'd told Jongdae where the Yangcheon-gu tong's stolen manifests were. 

He'd been dismissive of the idea that Minseok could plan this far ahead, but when he opened the Koo file from 2013 and looked under the clip, there they were. The two sheets of paper Jongdae has dreamed of since their disappearance. It was only then that he'd started to believe. Oh, sure, he'd yelled, asked Minseok why he'd bothered to steal the things if he was going to hide them in the police station, but he'd had an answer, dear God, for everything. Minseok said that his friend, a reporter, had placed them in the file when he'd come to the station to do a story. They're safer there than with me, he'd said. Regardless of whether that is true or not, Park Chanyeol, the crime reporter, is Minseok's loyal friend (loyal, Jongdae had thought, to a fault), and a frequent visitor to the station. 

The tipping point was the blacklight. After the blacklight, he'd become a believer. After asking Minseok if he thought Jongdae was some kind of goddamned hippie, he'd gone to a store and purchased a blacklight bulb himself. In the station bathroom, which had boasted a truly terrifying number of bodily fluids on walls and floors and places they should never be, he'd seen the papers change. He can still see them change. The normal ink receding, becoming overpowered by the real messages, written underneath. 

The worst part was the names at the top. All women's names. Written in North Korean-style Hangul, with its outdated endings and spellings, just a list of female humans, hidden from the average person's view. Prices, in won and yuan, next to all thirty-two names. And at the bottom, three more names: Byun Baekhyun. Wu Yi Fan. One he doesn't recognize. 

He'd asked Minseok why he hadn't told him before. Why he hadn't told _any_ of his brother officers. The answer still rings in his head. "I didn't tell anyone for three reasons. Because I didn't know how to read the list yet. Because I thought, and still think, the SMPA was mixed up in it. And because I wanted to do it all." 

He'd asked Minseok what the fuck that meant, and his friend had laughed, without any semblance of joy or satisfaction. "I fell in love. I wanted to take them all down so I could be happy with him. But it didn't work out that way. So now I just want to take them all down." 

Jongdae remembers the pain in those words, and vows he'll help, even if he might not understand it all. Vengeance is something Koreans understand. 

There's a shout from behind him, and he sighs in silent relief as he sees the port authority man grumbling through the throng of cops with a thick ring of keys. He walks over, not sure if he should reach for his taser or not. He hopes to God the manifests aren't being literal - and yet, he somehow knows they will be. 

The first shipping container is unlocked with a noise so loud it sounds as though he's climbed into a Buddhist prayer bell. The chain falls away, and two men on each side wrench the doors apart.

Jongdae peers inside, and is met with eyes. Countless sets of eyes, most dark, all silent, in heads too big for thin female-presenting bodies. The product of chronic undernourishment. 

He just somehow knows that these aren't refugees. Or they weren't when they left Pyongyang. 

He turns aside to throw up, eyes slammed shut, feeling an avalanche of hatred and confusion and sadness. If they'd known the blacklight trick - if Minseok had told them something was going on, even if he didn't know what - if fucking kkangpaes weren't only out for themselves. Greek tragedies aren't normal in Jongdae's life, and he doesn't know what to do with this much anguish that isn't his own. 

All he can do, he knows, is to help stop this. To help Minseok, his friend, his mentor, _his love?_ his brain whispered - Jongdae wrenches his brain back on task, even as he stops vomiting. He has a lot of angles to choose from. The tong. The SMPA, if they _are_ involved. Byun's boys (doesn't Byun refuse to run sex workers?). He wipes his mouth. Even if it might be too late for Minseok, it feels important to get to the bottom of this for the rest of the world. Maybe he can, for once, strike a blow for justice and goodness and all that shit. It would be a welcome change.


End file.
